


Under the Boreal

by hiddenvaults



Category: Bumblebee (Movie), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU universe: everyone lives in Jasper Nevada | 1987, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, highkey inspired by the bumblebee movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 03:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenvaults/pseuds/hiddenvaults
Summary: In the year 1987, on a vacation to the Rocky Mountains, Charlie Watson stumbles upon an overgrown Volkswagen Beetle.





	Under the Boreal

_Waldeinsamkeit -- the feeling of being alone in the forest | solitude of the forest_

* * *

B-127 awoke to fire.

His systems leapt. It was as if they were primed to come online the second he opened his optics; battle-protocols screamed to life and audials blared until all he could hear was the hearty crackle of flames around his lower half. A small subsystem alerted attention to a leaking fuel-line, another nitpicked about a failed joint. Warnings after warnings popped up in his comms, red text scrolling fast.

Yet his processor screamed danger from elsewhere. Sparing no kliks, B-127 dropped his visor and blue crosshairs locked into his visual input. Input registered the sound of thrusters, the grind of a Vos engine approaching rapidly from his left. _INCOMING_ , his sensors bellowed, a frantic system of bold letters, panicked in their scrawl. _MOVE._

He moved. From the wreckage he ripped both gooey pedes from the melting steel, and began to race. Subsystems rose to guide his half-groggy processor, weaving his strides away through organic bush. The sound of thrusters grew to a roar. Thrusters meant danger.

 _TRIPLE-CHANGER_ , his systems named. _FIRING._

He leapt forward. Something streamed past him, and hit wrong. The resounding explosion was probably impressive but he did not stick around long enough to eye it up. Instead, the Cybertronian veered left. An engine growled and hurtled past.

 _Who was firing at him?_ He ducked down as another missile whistled past, and flinched when debris clattered against his plating. _Where was he?_ He had been falling, that was what he could recall. Falling from up. Yes, he had been falling from up. Up was far away. Up had been the colour of...orange? Half his memory units were abuzz, flaring before shorting out to static. His name was B-127. He was on a mission. He was doing something, something for the Autobots.

_Who were the Autobots again?_

That was all his thoughts could give him. Systems whirled alarms, something warned _ON YOUR LEFT_ but he did not turn quick enough. The triple-changer hit him hard; next, all he could see was the spin of organic plants and frustrated red optics, brutal as something battered hard against his processor. A servo, he realized blankly and the next hit brought a wicked crunch. Half his screen turned cracked. With a surge of annoyance, B-127 looked back into those crimson optics and bashed his helm forward.

That did the trick.

The jet reeled back. Dropping to his pedes, B-127 decided that now was a good time to run - but before he was able, one purple servo shot out and grabbed his plating tight enough to leave dents. “127,” the mech snarled and with his name they were airborne, hovering above the burning organic world. B-127 felt his spark hurtle circles in his chest and did _not_ look down. “Aren’t you a feisty one.”

He could not remember this mech. Panicking, he shot a pede out and cracked into the other’s codpiece. The mech grunted, and closed his fist tighter. Pain - a new feeling that he automatically did not like - bubbled forward with the static around his throat. Uselessly, he rose both servos to bat against the iron-grip.

“You’re smaller than I remember,” the triple-changer mused.

 _Remember?_ B-127 opened his glossa to speak, to demand answers but nothing outputted. Instead, a high buzz hissed through the vocalizer like a whining Turbofox. Widening his optics, he tried again. The same whine, yet this time it was quieter and static hummed at the edges. Angrily, he thrashed and tried to input the command again. His subsystems did nothing, commanded nothing. Blank just like his memories, his voice refused to answer him.

All while the mech’s other servo lowered from his helm and his optics locked onto B-127. Fresh Energon stained the jet’s dentae when he smiled. “Tygar Pax still holds its mark,” the other Cybertronian crowed, and then with mocking sympathy, slid his thumb forward to cup gently at his throat.

The touch had him bristling. B-127 snarled, and the buzz of his voice seared through his throat, tracing down his systems with fervid heat. In his fury another five alerts rang up, and this time one carried a glimmer of hope.

 _Main weapons online,_ the interface hummed. _Activating._

Seems he did remember something. B-127 brought his servo up and fired.

Electricity arched. He felt the surge of his spark just as the weapon opened its terrible jaw, yawning ozone. The jet shrieked and let go off B-127’s throat, but he held firm onto the mech’s arm and burnt that charge straight into the vitals of the large. Gears twitched and sparks flew up from under plating. Thrusters offlined.

Still firing, B-127 used his other servo to wretch open the frigid grip of the mech’s fingers, and demanded his visor to measure the distance to the advancing ground. The shattered screen reflected errors back to him. Hm. Estimates would have to do. How long was a fall from this height? Five kliks seemed right. Rooting his stance, he braced against the makedo shield of the fried jet.

Four. Three. Two. _Jump._

The frozen frame cracked on the ground, something smashed. 127 hit the ground in a roll, shot upwards and took off again left. The sting would not hold the big ‘bot. The freezing charge on his Stinger lasted only what, twenty kliks? Thirty kliks? There was only one way to get through this friendly reunion, and that was he had to find some hideout before that damn Decepticon Blitzwing caught him again in the missile fire.

 _Blitzwing_. _Decepticon._ That was new. _Where had that come from?_

Focus. Shrubbery caught at his plating as he ripped through another glade, and mud sprayed into his failing joints. He had to hide and repair. He may not remember why he had landed here, but the words on his visor were starting to make more sense as he pondered them. _Failing left joint. Navigation offline. Energon leak. Teletraan connection severed._ Percentages flickered near them, lowering by the klik.

How would he hide? B-127 scanned through the fuzzy memories, trying to find anything. Unfamiliar faces laughed as he scrolled by, pointing to him, but the records were empty of usable tactics. He’d keep to running then. Maybe luck would be in his favour.

Something roared overhead. _INCOMING_ , his systems warned him again helpfully.

“B-127!” The bellow emerged from the treeline behind him, and out emerged the triple-charger, lit in fury and missiles primed. Spinning, 127 breezed another shot at the mech - the electric snap clipped side of the mech’s wing but did nothing to slow the charge. He braced, then the jet hit him straight in the middle and then the world fizzed into a blue buzz.

When he came to, he was pinned. Heavy weight had crushed his thighs. His right arm was not responding to any of his orders to move. The other was trapped behind his back, screeching protests.

Blitzwing stared down. “You annoying little _bug_ ,” the jet swore. One of his optics was flickering blue now, dilated and furious. “Where is he?”

B-127 lashed out but restrained under the other mech’s weight, it did nothing. Blitzwing growled and a servo slashed. “Where is he?” The mech repeated harsher, and came away with Energon-stained servos. Alerts chirped to remind his HUD that 127 was at half-fuel capacity now and was steadily declining. “Where is Optimus Prime?”

 _Optimus?_ B-127 struggled again, bashing his helm back to the ground.

“Oh, what is the _point_ ,” Blitzwing hissed and then hauled him upwards. B-127 lost the ground again as the Decepticon twisted the sore shoulder backwards until pain writhed through his entire frame. His vocalizer surged with the intent to _howl_ but the input surged into clicking mechanics. “You are broken. He can’t scream, this one. No fun.”

Sensors chirped. _Melee online,_ his HUD hummed again.

That was new. Whatever that meant, it had to be good. Priming it, B tried to relax as the system crawled to his right arm. Something slid against his backstrut, crooked steel unsheathing. The short blade hovered, ready.

Ready for where? Arm? Pede? Optic? B-127 let his gaze flicker over Blitzwing’s chassis with dismay. He couldn’t remember where to strike. His mind was a cloud of stagnant noise, and there was an ache now, throbbing at the side of his helm. Half his frame begged him to drop into stasis. Bewildered, B-127 waved away the alerts. Where had Blitzwing hit him? He could replicate that.

_Thumb over throat._

That’ll do.

Blitzwing hardly noticed the scout’s dilemma. He was too busy arguing with himself. “Sent us after the weak scouts. I wanted the red one, but Starscream had to have the glory,” the mech snapped at the sky. The servo around 127’s shoulder wretched him up higher. “Look at you. _Pathetic_.”

B-127 let out another hiss and kicked up. It hit the outside of the mech’s thighs uselessly. Blitzwing frowned. “Pathetic,” he repeated again and brought him closer. “Shatter spoke highly of your combat skills. What is --”

That was all he got through the sentence before 127 interrupted him. The short blade swiped and embedded itself into the jet’s throat -- purple sprayed as the stinger dug deep. Static garbled and both servos went to the blade. Not even sticking around to see if Blitzwing recovered, B-127 lifted himself off the thrashing Decepticon and dashed back into the woods, trying to draw distance. Hopefully that would slow him.

The world erupted white.

* * *

“He’s offlined.”

“He better be,” the voice snarled. In the ringing of his processor B-127 recognized the sneer, but could not name it. Wisely, he stayed quiet. “He’s caused us enough trouble already. How is Blitzwing?”

“Recovering. The slagger got ‘em good, that’s for certain. Blitzwing’s lucky I doubled back for him, otherwise he would’ve leaked out. Have these Autobots always fought so _dirty_?”

“This one’s always been odd.” Something kicked at the side of his helm. B-127 let his helm snap back, and did not dare to online his optics. “Any spike in vitals?”

“None. Wait. Oh, nothing.” Something scuffed closer, and he forced himself to stay still as an unfamiliar servo poked at his throat. “Nah, the fragger’s gone to the Pit. Primus smelt him.”

“Good.”

A vent exhaled. “Should we take him back to the Nemesis?”

His spark hammered.

“No.”

Relief washed over him.

“No, let him rust. Waste of energy. Blitzwing has half his chassis still ripped in his hands, and his stinger. Lord Megatron will know this little scout won’t be moving any more.” Something hit him again, harder. He forced his vents to offline. “Rendezvous point. Lead the way.”

“Aye, Shatter.”

Thrusters onlined, and twin roars of engines went off. Only when the plants around him stopped swaying back forth, and the chirp of a loud organic started again was when B-127 opened his optics and gasped. Pain shot through his vents as he let out the exhale. Oh, _Primus_.

Energon at fifth-capacity.

He tried to move. His right arm was gone, shot to the Pit. Both his pedes were barely functioning. The missile that had struck him had taken off all his outer plating and left bits of his protoform visible. Forcing himself to stand, the scout staggered forward. He needed to leave, now.

He did not know how long he forced himself to walk. Part of his processor told him his internal clock had smashed, another just shut the data out and rerouted attention to walking. Ground went from mushy green to hardened asphalt, then to sand. Only when damaged sensors registered wet was when B-127 finally registered he had hit a liquid, and looked down.

Some sort of transparent liquid. Wasn’t corrosive. He would’ve analyzed it more, standing there half-destroyed and failing, but a squeal interrupted him. B-127 blinked, and looked down.

There were these...organics. Fleshies. They had been all scattered around a four-wheeled device but now, with the arrival of B-127, all had bounced off it to back away slowly. The closest one looked up with two eyes, mouth agape and trembling, and then _screamed_ . The noise could rival Blitzwing. Behind the shrieking one, the others fled, staggering along the sand with flaying limbs. Soon, the one decided to join their friends and B-127 was left at the water’s edge (that’s what it was called, _water_ ) alone.

He could not find it in himself to care. The strange device was what he was interested in, and with effort he wretched himself towards the machine. It was primitive. It reeked of oil. But he did not care. Something in him told him he needed rest, and to hide. Blitzwing would be back, with the one called Shatter. He needed an alternate form -- and, for now, the primitive machine would do. Bringing the subsystem up, he knelt down and issued the command to transform, system by system. His T-Cog wretched active.

Energon at 1%. Stasis on standby.

B-127 shut down, and transformed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basing this heavily on the style of the Bumblebee movie, but not the actual plot. If you are afraid to find Bumblebee spoilers here, there will be none.


End file.
